fictionissue17 – Page 2 – The Quarry Journal

Swan Lake, Swarna Pinto

If you keep walking west along the Woodend Road, passing newly built double story houses with double garages and flower pots at the front, you will come to Blue Gum Tree Lake Reserve without noticing my house. It is the last house on the street and is hidden behind large weeping willows. Overgrown apple, plum and apricot trees surround my house. It is a weatherboard with curly peels of white paint hanging onto timber slats. My front and back yards are big and get overgrown with weeds and grass until a council gardener turns up. My old Holden Sunbird, covered in dust, sits on the driveway.

I like to sit on the porch at dusk to watch people coming back from walks in the reserve or picnics near the lake and to hear them talking. Sometimes I hear them talking about me. You know there’s an old woman who lives there all alone. Gives me the creeps. I like my solitary existence and I like my house. The best thing about my place is that I can see swans gliding on the lake from the backyard. Before coming here, I lived in a few different places with different people. Now they are all but fading memories except for my memories of Sasha and Jana.

I met Jana when I was a scholarship student in Soviet Russia. My university was in Astrakhan, a city by the Volga River in southern Russia. I lived on campus in Hostel Number 7. After classes, I hung out with three other girls from my tutorial group–Jana, Anu and Meena–who came from Sri Lanka like me. Jana had a boyfriend in Sri Lanka who wrote long letters to her. He was called Saman. Anu, Meena and Jana were classy and beautiful. Jana was the most beautiful. I was plain and awkward. My left hand was useless. It hung limp. It had been like that since I was about ten, after I fell off my bicycle while trying no-hands down a steep slope.

All three of them went out a lot and usually missed morning lectures. Jana even missed tutorials. But it didn’t get them in trouble because I let them copy my lecture notes. I let Jana copy my assignments.

We liked to talk about boys. We all agreed that Sasha was the cutest. We saw him at morning math lectures. He came in at the last moment and hurried out just as the lecture finished. He sat in the back row where guys usually sat, but two or three seats away from them. Jana was very keen on Sasha although she was dating Arun, a mature PhD student from India who looked like a movie star. She also had Saman waiting for her back in Sri Lanka.

Once, Jana said that Sasha looked like a Greek god.

‘He’s not Greek, he’s Russian,’ I blurted out.

The moment those words went out of my mouth, I knew I had made a big mistake. Jana rolled her eyes.

‘What does it matter to you?’

She left the rest to hang in the air: you who are ugly.

Jana was like that. She would hurt me but later would make it up to me.

A week or so prior, Jana asked Meena and Anu if they wanted to go to a party on Saturday. Both declined as they had dates.

‘I’ll come,’ I piped up.

‘You can’t dance. I’ll ask Oumou, she’s terrific.’

Two days later Jana followed me into the stolovaya. She put her tray on my table and sat across me. I finished eating my lunch and got up.

‘Sit down and eat this. Please.’ She pushed a plate with two pieces of cake towards me. By the time we were descending the stairs, I was laughing with her. She stroked my hair and said she wished her hair was smooth like mine.

‘Have you done your Chemistry yet?’ I asked, knowing that she had not. Then I let her copy my assignment.

But when Jana implied that I was not worthy even to talk about Sasha, I detested her. I liked Sasha very much and felt that he liked me as well. At the lectures, I would feel a thrilling tingle on my nape, encouraging me to turn around. Sasha would smile and my heart would leap, shooting an exciting warmth inside my whole body. I was sure that he was going to talk to me soon. Then Jana came to a morning lecture.

After the break that morning, Sasha did not return to his seat. I was secretly happy because I knew that Jana came to strike up a conversation with him. Jana fidgeted beside me for a while, then abruptly went out. I thought she was going back to catch up on her sleep.

The next day in math class Jana was glowing. She told us how she had met Sasha in the stolovaya the previous morning. While Sasha ate his kasha, Jana had sipped a hot chocolate. Then they had gone out for a walk along the Volga. It had been cold and Sasha had draped his jacket over Jana. He had bought hot savoury piroshkies from a roadside vendor to eat while walking.

‘Did he kiss you?’ Meena asked.

Anu squealed, ‘She’s blushing.’ Then she whispered, ‘Arun will kill you’.

‘He doesn’t need to know.’

Meena said that they made a smashing couple and Anu agreed. They said the same thing when Jana hitched up with Arun.

‘Congrats,’ I heard myself say in a strange voice.

Jana wouldn’t stop talking about Sasha. I tried to switch off but heard that they were going to the movies that night.

‘You should find somebody and have some fun,’ Jana advised me, while pointedly looking at my limp and useless left hand.

Meena and Anu looked at me and then at each other.

‘She likes Sasha,’ Jana explained. ‘Haven’t you two seen how she turns back in class to look at him every five minutes?’

Then she looked straight at me.

‘Sasha is mine.’

I did not hear anything after that. At the end of the class Jana wanted to talk to me. I ignored her and gathered my books.

‘Are you upset over Sasha?’

My pencil case slipped and landed near Jana’s feet. I thought she would pick it up for me as I was holding books with my right hand.

‘Are you?’ Jana insisted.

I placed my books back on the desk and bent down to get my pencil case.

‘Pathetic. He knows about you.’

I picked up my pencil case and rushed to my hostel.

Pathetic? Sasha knows about me? Am I pathetic? Did everyone think I was pathetic? How could Jana hurt me like that just after copying my math assignment? I decided not to let her do this to me anymore.

I remember coming into my room and wishing there was somewhere I could go, for Jana was sure to come and see me as she always did on her date nights. She would chassé into my room ostensibly to check her make up in my mirror but in fact to show off and to hear my compliments. After she left, her perfume would linger and torture me well into the night.

I threw my books on my bed and went out. I walked on Tatisheva Street, turning my back on the direction to the cinema and Volga. I pictured Jana and Sasha walking: Jana on Sasha’s arm, the way Russian couples walked. Jana would be leaning on Sasha. He would bend his blond head and kiss her glossy lipsticked mouth.

A sudden rush of warm air threw me backwards and I landed on my useless left hand. A goods train thundered past me. My heart pounded. Two more steps and that train would have killed me.

Tears came unbidden as I lay there. I cried until I was spent. Then I got up and looked around. I knew that the station was only a half an hour walk from my hostel, but I did not know which way the station was. The railway line disappeared into birch trees in both directions. If I walked the wrong way I would be lost and frozen to death.

It was getting dark and the cold was seeping right into my bones. My wristwatch had stopped at 2.30, the time the math class had finished. I guessed it was around six by then.

I started walking along the railway, making sure to keep a few feet distance. If I didn’t see any lights in about half an hour, I would turn back and walk the opposite way. I was thinking whether to go further or to turn back when I heard a bird flapping its wings above me. I shivered as a huge dark shape disappeared into the night. It’s only a bat, I told myself. A sliver of a pale moon peeked from behind grey clouds calming me a little. I kept walking. Under my boots and gloves my feet and my fingers were numb from cold.

A dog howled from somewhere far away. It was a mournful howl. My teeth chattered when I spotted two yellow eyes in the distance. The eyes belonged to an animal much bigger than a dog. It advanced, keeping its gleaming yellow eyes trained on me. It was a wolf. Quickly, I hid behind the closest tree. The wolf came closer but stopped about ten yards away from me.

It bent its head and sniffed at something on the ground which looked like one of my gloves. I looked at my hands and saw that the left glove was missing.

Take it and go. But it left my glove and continued to come towards me. Could it hear my teeth chattering and my heart thumping? I closed my eyes and clamped my teeth together and stayed rigid despite the shivering. The wolf padded around my tree and stopped right behind me. Prey in sight, it was waiting for me to make the first move.

I don’t know how long I had stayed that way when I felt a tingle on my nape and heard a familiar voice say, ‘Priviet.’ (Hello.)

I spun around.

‘Sasha?’

‘Vsio normalna?’ (Everything okay?) he asked.

I whimpered, ‘There’s a wolf.’

‘Mmm?’ Sasha looked around. ‘I don’t see a wolf.’

‘Pashli,’ (Let’s go) he extended his hand.

He picked up my glove from the ground and put it on gently. Then he placed my left hand on the crook of his right elbow and covered my hand with his other one. We started walking and Sasha suggested crossing Swan Lake.

He wanted to know what I was doing back there. I asked him where Jana was.

‘You must answer me first.’

As I struggled to compose myself, Sasha looked into my eyes with such tenderness I burst into tears. He let me cry on his shoulder. When I became quiet, he asked again.

‘To watch trains.’

‘Very funny. That’s a decommissioned line.’

I shivered uncontrollably and Sasha removed his winter coat and draped it over me. He would take me to his Babushka’s house to warm me up.

It was then I told Sasha about Jana’s hurtful remarks. I said that she had just finished copying my math assignment when she said those things.

‘Forget Jana. You are very sweet and very intelligent.’

Swan Lake was gleaming white right in front of us. Sasha glided around the lake holding me tightly to his warm body. The moon was out and stars twinkled in the dark purple sky. He sang a Russian folk song, Moscow Nights, in a beautiful baritone.

The wind picked up as we approached his Babushka’s house. It was an old weatherboard and stood among a few bare trees. There were no other houses near it. From the moonlight that fell on it I saw that the windows were boarded up. We climbed some wooden steps and Sasha opened the front door with his key. He then scooped me up and carried me into the lounge, while floorboards creaked all the way. He placed me gently on a sofa in front of an old log fire place and adjusted his coat over me. I saw cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and from framed portraits on the walls. In no time Sasha built a roaring fire. I felt deliciously warm and drowsy.

‘Ona budet v poryadke,’ I heard somebody saying from far away. I wanted to ask who was going to be fine but I could not talk. I could not even see who was talking. I knew I was sleeping, but had no idea where I was.

They said I was found lying on a bench near my hostel on a very cold morning. The temperature had been five degrees below zero during the night. I was barely breathing and they had rushed me to the hospital. I had been very ill for over two weeks.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ I told everyone who asked me, although I clearly remembered the night with Sasha. Anu and Meena came one morning to take me back to the hostel. I didn’t ask after Jana.

I was not allowed to go to classes for another two weeks and I mostly slept. A nurse from the campus Medpunkt visited me daily. She massaged my left hand which was coming to life. One afternoon the Faculty Dean came to see me. He questioned me about the night I was found on a bench.

‘I went for a walk up to the station and got lost. I don’t know how I ended up on a bench.’

‘Jana was with you that night?’

‘No.’

Then he said that Jana hadn’t been seen since the day I was found on the bench. I lifted my eyebrows and kept quiet. But when he said that Jana had been sighted near Swan Lake an audible gasp escaped from me. He looked straight at me as he continued talking in his measured tone.

‘On that night, the ice on the lake would have cracked even if a small child were to step on it.’
He stayed a few more minutes, telling me how to catch up with the lessons.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll find her.’

The next day my nurse had found me in a delirium. This time I stayed much longer in another hospital. More than a year had passed by the time I could attend classes.

The first thing I did was walk to Swan Lake. The morning was bright and crisp, the sun reflecting off the pure white snow. My boots made soft crunch … crunch …noises as they made imprints in the snow. The lake was a flat white sheet. Swans had already migrated to the other side of the world as they did each year. For a while I watched people skating on the lake. It was snowing when I walked back and my footprints disappeared under the falling snow.

I decided to immigrate. I would go wherever and do whatever. I applied to UK, Canada and Australia. Australia replied and within six months I was in Melbourne. Once in Melbourne I could not find a research position and ended up becoming a cleaner. I cleaned up other people’s messes. I learned to clean mine.

Now that I have all the time in the world to think, conflicting thoughts swirl in my mind. I know that I was very ill in Astrakhan all those years ago. I also know that severe hypothermia can cause hallucinations and confusion. But I would like to assure you that my night with Sasha, the most beautiful night I have ever had, was real.

I left Astrakhan and went to Moscow to forget Jana and Sasha. Then I came here to Melbourne for the same reason. I wanted to forget the past. But the mind is a tricky thing. It keeps all the memories I have wanted to forget. And I am glad to have those memories intact. That’s all I have now.

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Night Market, Ry Feder

Circle

The markets glimmer in the dark like firelight.

It’s the fairy lights draped over each booth, Jamie thinks, and the lanterns that criss-cross the paths between them. Individually, each bulb is small. They don’t produce much light. But together… massed together, they’re breathtaking.

It’s a nice metaphor. Jamie mentally notes it down to use later in a story.

‘Okay, we got a bunch to do. Where first?’ Jack asks the group, his arm slung over Callum’s shoulder. Jamie glances sidelong at them, then away.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s not like they miss being with Jack specifically, and he and Callum really do make a good match (hell, Jamie had been the one to suggest that Callum ask Jack out in the first place). But of their circle of friends, Jamie is the only one who doesn’t have someone and sometimes that loss feels like lead in their stomach.

It had been their choice, they have to keep reminding themself of that. It had been Jamie who had told Jack it wasn’t working, and they have no one else to blame.

And they’re at the markets, and they’re big and bright and bursting with life and maybe, maybe they can find someone here, find a connection. Somewhere amidst the lights and the lanterns, the arts and crafts, music and sound, amidst the swell and push of humanity, maybe there is someone here who they can connect with.

Coffee in one hand, and they won’t sleep well tonight. But Jamie’s wandering feet have led them to a stall bursting with music and movement, a keyboardist spinning songs from their fingertips. Jamie stops and watches, lets the music sink into their bones, and the song comes to an end and the keyboardist looks up and meets their gaze.

There’s warmth, there. Curiosity, fascination. The potential for a connection, maybe, if they dare. They hold Jamie’s gaze for a moment, then a smile crosses their lips.

Jamie smiles back.

The Artists

Danica hands over the sketch, accepts the ten dollars, and gives a sunshine-bright saleswoman smile.

‘Pleasure doing business with you!’ she beams, tucking the note in the tin. She’s already planning out the groceries – eighty cents for a half-kilo tin of lentils, two bucks forty for peanut butter, a dollar sixty for the no-name supermarket bread…

There’s a gap in the music; she glances up from her list. ‘Hey, Lucc? White, wholegrain, or multigrain?’

The pianist runs a hand through eir hair with one hand and reaches for the water bottle with the other. ‘Uh, dunno. We already get rice?’

‘Yeah, two pictures ago.’

‘Wholegrain.’

Danica nods and jots it down. ‘Cool. We almost have enough for bananas.’

‘Bitchin’.’ Lucc grins and launches into a cover of The Banana Boat Song; a few of the market-goers pause to sing along to the old standard. Smiling back, Danica drums against her little table to provide some accompaniment, a few red curls escaping their clips to bounce around her face as she sways to the song.

The movement helps. Movement means catching people’s eye, catching people’s eye means they’re more likely to look at the paintings she has for sale or, more likely, the ten-dollar sketches she does (‘While you wait!’). It works out well, sharing a booth with Lucc. They split the vendor fee, eir music attracts people who might buy Danica’s art; those browsing her art will inevitably listen to Lucc’s music and maybe contribute a few dollars to the tip jar, maybe buy an EP.

Rent does not come cheap.

Lucc has wrapped up the cover and gone into one of eir own compositions. A few stick around to listen, including a cutie with freckles splattered over their face like paint and a jacket adorned with a riot of colourful badges. They (there’s a nonbinary flag amongst the badges) have one hand on their cocked hip, a smile on their lips. Danica is about eighty percent sure they’re flirting.

‘This next one,’ Lucc says as ey finishes up, ‘Is dedicated to all the beautiful people out here tonight.’ Ey winks at the one in the jacket, Danica laughs at the blush it produces and turns back to set up her sketchpad for the next portrait.

It’s on the ground, along with her pencils and eraser, stool overturned. The kneaded eraser is half buried, and there’s the imprint of a boot in its soft surface.

‘What the hell?’ she mutters, straightening up the stool, trying to work the mud out of the eraser. It’s well and truly ground in, unusable without leaving streaks of dirt over the paper, and she bites her lip savagely.

Kneaded eraser, four dollars ten. Broken 4B pencil, eighty cents for one or two bucks for the three-pack for the cheap ones…

The thing is, she’s starting to realise, is that the stool had been tucked away in the middle of their little stall. It’s not somewhere where people might randomly bump into it, where they might accidentally knock her supplies to the ground. To get the imprint of a boot like that (and Danica’s boots have a different print, and Lucc has not left the keyboard since she last saw her sketchbook), it would have to be deliberate.

The cash box hasn’t been touched yet. Danica hesitates, then slips the money out and into her jacket pocket, buttoning it shut.

She hates not trusting people. Hates it. Danica likes to think herself an extrovert, that the people she surrounds herself with are good at heart. She likes to think that the people at the night market are people who care, who are seeking homemade food and handcrafted art, to hear live music and to exist within humanity’s heartbeat.

Vandalism doesn’t come under that category.

There’s a break in the music and, just on the edge of her hearing, a few whispers. Some muffled laughter. The sound of something tearing. She turns just in time to see one of her earlier sketches drift to the ground like a feather.

Her jaw sets. ‘I need to check something out,’ she murmurs to Lucc, and then she darts around the side of the stall just in time to see someone disappearing into the darkness.
The fairy lights and lanterns might be atmospheric, but the light they give is dim. Danica wavers, bites her lip.

Trying to catch them would be futile at best. She’s not dressed for running through the dark, over uneven ground. She would be better off brushing her things off and getting back to drawing, let market security deal with the issue.

But it’s left a stain on the evening. A sharp reminder (in the form of a trodden-on eraser) that she has to fight for every scrap of independence. That it’s not enough to be able to survive in the city with her art, with Lucc’s music, with friendship and the markets at the hub of it all. That there are forces actively working against her.

She doesn’t even know who they are. Wouldn’t even be able to pick them out in a line-up. She doesn’t know if they’re vandals on a mission, or just reckless kids acting up.

Slowly, she picks up the sketch from where it had fallen, brushing off some of the dirt. Slowly, she pins it back up, rightens the stool, sets her things up again.

She has work to do.

Torn Paper

Miri’s fingers are stained grey.

She has her hand shoved in her jeans pocket, tight around the cash and feeling hideously conspicuous. Matt’s advice (‘Don’t look guilty, don’t run, just walk around like you own the place’) feels utterly inadequate; she’s sure that everyone can see the handful of fives and tens she took from the noodle stall through the fabric as she weaves through the stalls.

Apparently that damn artist had been using some kind of super-pencil. When she had ripped the drawing off the wall, it had covered her skin in glossy charcoal grey.

Stupid Matt. Stupid, charismatic, charming Matt and his stupid, charismatic, charming friends.

None of them are in sight, of course. They all scattered the instant the artist had nearly caught them in the act, leaving Miri with stained fingers and the sensation of being dangled over a cliff in her stomach.

She needs to wash her hands. Then she needs to find the others. Then she needs to… she needs to…

One clenched finger at a time, she lets go of the money in her pocket and wipes the tips of her fingers against her thigh. No one will notice the dark streaks on dark denim, and it gets most of the surface stuff off, at least; she doesn’t look too immediately guilty.

Doesn’t look it, anyway.

What the hell is she doing? Stealing and breaking things, causing trouble, hurting people, just to win approval? Matt might rule the school, he might be funny and clever and have really nice blue eyes, he might throw the best parties and have the best car, but…

But…

Her older sister Sarah is a genius. Her older brother Jack, he’s an actor and everyone loves him. Her parents are wildly successful and always telling them what they need to do to be great in life, and here is Miri, resorting to vandalism to earn the friendship of the coolest people in school.

No, not even friendship, because Matt had made it very clear that she was still only part of the group on a trial basis. She still isn’t being invited to the parties; she still hasn’t been given a lift in Matt’s car. She’s doing this to become their lackey, with friendship a distant hope.

They’ve ditched her, probably. Knows that if they’re caught, it’ll be her with the pencil marks on her fingers and a pocket full of stolen money who’ll be the liability.

Is it worth it, after all?

Miri slips her hand back in her pocket, wraps her hand around the notes, and decides, no.

New

Between customers, Rupert rests her leaden arms against the counter and sighs.

She likes cooking, truly. Wouldn’t be a cook if she didn’t. But working the markets is wearying, and towards the end of the evening she feels weighed down, the ache deep in her shoulders and biceps from flipping, folding, and filling gozleme.

It’s good money, though. Makes Jess happy, and making her wife happy is one of Rupert’s favourite things to do (along with cooking, lounging, and naps). And that, there, is the source of her current discontent.

A customer. Minced lamb for this one, with a scoop of mint yoghurt; she accepts the payment and serves it with a smile.

‘Thanks, man.’

Beneath the beard, Rupert’s smile turns a little pained.

What is she going to do? She’s not sure how much longer she can stand being like this, a woman stuck in a man’s skin. She wants to be herself. Wants to hear ‘ma’am’, not ‘man’. Ditch the beard. Grow her hair out. Try heels. (Fall over in heels. Twist ankle in heels. Go back to sneakers. Rupert is nothing if not a realist.)

But Jess married a husband, not a wife. If Rupert spills her heart to her, she could lose her forever.

There’s another customer waiting, a girl glancing between Rupert’s gozleme and the Hokkein noodle stall one over before settling on her. ‘Spinach and feta, please’ she says, a soft little thing, gaze fixed at the stall counter.

Poor kiddo. Must be tired.

Rupert musters a smile for her and starts heating one up. ‘Long evening?’ she asks sympathetically, and the girl glances up in sharp surprise before looking away again.

‘Uh, yeah. I guess so.’ She scratches at her temple, leaving a dirty smudge there; silently, Rupert offers her a wet wipe. ‘Oh. Uh, thanks.’

‘Well,’ Rupert says conspiratorially, ‘You know the coffee stall a few down? They do a really good Turkish coffee, if you need to stay up. Tell ’em Rupert sent you and you’ll get a discount.’

The girl doesn’t reply, just stares at her hands, at the counter. ‘Okay.’ She worries at her lip, scratches the back of her hand; Rupert keeps cooking and watches her with a concerned eye. When she finally speaks again, her voice cracks. ‘I don’t think coffee will solve my problem.’

There’s something small and vulnerable and afraid about her; Rupert’s heart twinges. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she offers gently, far too aware of the incongruity of her appearance; not a maternal, gentle older woman, but the very appearance of a middle-aged man with a beard, paying attention to a teenage girl. She can’t get too involved, can’t help too much just by how she looks. Hates it.

Silently, the girl shakes her head. ‘Just –‘ she starts, stops again. ‘Just… I’m trying to be someone I’m not. I’m doing stupid, shitty things to try and be, like, acceptable, and it’s… stupid.’ She repeats the word, softly this time. ‘It’s stupid, not being myself.’

Something in Rupert’s chest twists. ‘Do you want to be yourself?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Then you should. You should be yourself. Don’t try to be someone else just to please others, that only breaks you up inside.’

She has to take the chance. Has to risk telling Jess, even if it breaks her heart. Has to be herself, because the only life she has is her own.

‘Yeah. Yeah.’ The girl gives Rupert a watery smile, then pays for her gozleme and picks up the paper plate. For a moment, she hesitates, then pulls out another small wad of cash, fives and tens, half-crumpled. ‘I took this from the noodle people next to you,’ she says, and her voice is steady now. ‘Can you give it back to them and tell them I say sorry?’

And she turns, runs before Rupert can speak a word, runs and leaves a grubby handful of stolen notes behind.

Rupert gives the noodle people their money and the girl’s apologies. Cooks food for people, good food to nourish them. Packs up as the markets slow down like it’s falling asleep.

The artist from the stall across from her wanders by with her sketches and gear, an expression of grim determination on her face. Behind is her musician friend struggling by with their keyboard, a freckly-faced young person in a badge-covered jacket helping wrangle it down the path before stealing a kiss. Rupert thinks of bravery and authenticity and a fistful of money left with an apology.

She’s going to go home. Talk to Jess, no matter what may come of it.

Around her, the market goes to sleep, and the lights flicker out like embers.

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Thursday’s Alice, Glenn Kershaw

Fuck me dead!

I watched as the arse end of my bus lumbered into the rain like some fat elephant from a Disney movie. I’d been running hard and came to a stop on the edge of the cracked and lumpy pavement just in time to miss it. I shouldn’t have hung at Alice’s place but then you don’t say no to someone like Alice, not when it’s free.

I should have brought my raincoat. It was a real nice one I’d nicked from this shop at Chatswood. Funny thing, it was only that morning I’d stood on Liz’s front porch finishing off my coffee, watching the thick clouds come roiling over … “Roiling”, that’s a good word, isn’t it? That’s a Liz word. She used words like that, “Roiling”. The dark grey clouds came roiling over. I could have asked Liz about my raincoat, but I couldn’t, not really. See, she was out of it.

The rain was pouring down on me like a flood. My pony tail had come loose and the rain had plastered strands against my cheeks and shoulders. Fat drops ran down my neck and back. My jumper wasn’t any good against the rain. I was getting all soggy standing there. It was a good bet I’d end up smelling like a pair of damp socks by the time I got back to Liz’s place. Liz is my girlfriend.

So, I was left in a quandary, as Liz might say. I only knew the time for that one bus. Anyway, didn’t matter. There’d be another along soon enough, there had to be. Stood to reason. But how long would I have to wait? This stop didn’t have no shelter.

I squinted up and down the street through the rain. Down the road I saw head lights, dancing like butterflies, coming toward me and one or two orphan streetlights, that had come on due to the heavy clouds. It was only 10am but you’d swear it was evening. Up the road was the steady shine of some shops. Maybe there was a café. A hot coffee would go down a real treat.

Trouble was, if I went for a cuppa then missed the next bus—well, I didn’t want to be out all day as I had a job tonight. You see Liz’d be back on planet Earth by the time I got back and we could have a bit of fun till I had to go to work. She’s a bit of a pudding, is my Liz, but pretty good in bed. She’d been dead to the world when I left this morning as usual. That’s why I packed my backpack before I left, saved awkward questions.

What goes in my backpack depends on my work for the day. Some days I’m a Stop/Go man on a road gang for this friend from inside. This mate is a frequent flyer so the work isn’t too regular. I tell you, the going was bloody hot in summer and shitty cold in winter. For those days I made sandwiches and a flask of coffee. Other days, I labour for this builder mate I know. I don’t need lunch then as I get myself a steak sanger with the boys, so I just pack a couple of tinnies.

For my night work, I pack my tools. I don’t need no dinner. Today I’d packed ‘em just before I left, as I said. I’d told Liz last night I was getting up to go see a mate and I’d be home before I went out again.

My mate? Well, to be honest, that’s Alice. Alice is, well, she’s what they call in the trade a “professional”. I met her a month or two ago. She likes me, so I get it for free. I pops round her place Thursdays. It’s like this, Liz don’t work Thursdays and Wednesday night she downs a couple of bottles of red and tops them off with a dose of her favourite Columbian nose cleaner. That lot shoots her to the moon till around ten in the morning. Liz is pretty good in the sack, and she’s hungry for it all the time. But Alice is the best. It’s probably better if Liz didn’t know about Alice. Liz owns the house, understand?

I really like the way Alice calls me Billy. It suits me more than William or Will. ‘Will what?’ I’d always ask. With Liz, it’s “William”. I mean, fuck! Here’s the thing, in another year, two at best, people will start calling me Bill. Only natural. ‘See old Bill, over there in the corner. In his day he was something,’ they’d be saying. Old Bill. Old man Bill. There was no happy medium, as Liz would say, between Billy and Bill. To Liz, I was this ‘Charming Rogue.’ Liz is educated, and she’s got all these good words.

But the truth was, I was starting to feel as if I was wearing someone else’s hat. It didn’t fit. Like my ponytail. I had the long strands pulled together and running down my back. The pony’d been a great thing to pull in the girls when I was in my late teens and my twenties. Now, I was starting to feel like a 70’s rocker trying it on. Young girls liked young boys, if you know what I mean. But old girls don’t like old men.

‘Mutton dressed up as lamb,’ that’s what my old mum would’ve said. She said things like that from behind her thick makeup and the wine glass that was always in her hand, except when she was on her back. She’d said it to me the last time I saw her.

We were westies, with a houso over at Mt Druitt. Just me and mum and her one true love. It was like this, mum was in a deep, long-lasting love affair, that didn’t include the long line of “dads” who came and went. Most of them only spent an hour, some a day, the longest was a full week. That didn’t happen that often and not at all as she got old. But the one who stayed with her, was always there, came from the grog shop, usually in a dark coloured bottle, unless times were tough then it was a cardboard box.

‘Bottle-O first,’ she’d say. Then to the supermarket if there was money left.

I remember when I was ten, I made up this game. I tried to remember the men’s names and especially their faces. Sometimes I’d be outside playing when they came, during the week or weekend, didn’t make no difference. I’d look at them and try and fix their faces, and I’d ask them their names. I was interested in their surnames, to see if any matched mine. A lot of them were just “Smith” or “Jones” or they’d simply grunt my way as they went in. I asked my mum once if any of them were my dad, my real dad. She’d looked at me blankly for some time then said, ‘Dunno’, then filled her glass and switched on the box.

As mum aged, she put on weight, her face became all mottled, her legs looked like a set of purple railroad tracks and there were less dads. She relied more and more on her “Wages”, as she called it, from the government. Casks replaced the bottles.

Anyway, I was standing in the rain, weighing up my options, my backpack wet through and my tools weighing me down when this cop car drives up, its tyres pushing the streams of water out of the way. The copper in the passenger seat drops his window and examines me. I bent over a bit and peered in. It was only Micky and Davo. I’ve known them for years. They’re a couple of lightweights. Mick’s just a senior and him with a flash of silver in his hair now. Dave was a probational when we first met. Even back then you could tell where his mind was by the form guide peeping out of his top pocket.

‘Billy,’ Micky said.

I lent in, all smiles and friendly like. Micky was in the passenger seat, and I dripped on his uniform.

‘Micky, Davo,’ I said. ‘How’re you going, boys?’

‘Good, mate, good,’ Micky said. ‘What are you up to around here?’

I had to be careful what I said, so gave them the same story as I’d given Liz, ‘Visiting a mate.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep, that’s it.’

‘Only a jewellery store was knocked off a couple of blocks over,’ Micky said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about it?’

You could have knocked me over with a feather. I’m usually up on these things, but I’d not heard a dicky. Some young gun probably. Well, good luck to him.

‘Me? No.’ And that’s the truth. Only thing was, I thought about the tools in my backpack and I guess it must have shown on my face.

‘Who’s this mate?’ There was a look in Micky’s eyes I didn’t like.

I’m usually a steady guy but my heart started to pound a bit.

‘A mate,’ I said.

‘Aren’t you shacked up with some chick down at Lindfield?’ Davo asked. He was leaning towards me, his elbow on the armrest.

‘That’s right. Lovely lady she is. Took me in and we’re as happy as two love birds.’

‘So, who’s this mate of yours?’ Micky asked. He always was a bit of a dog with a bone.

‘Me?’ I replied.

‘I’m not talking to your shadow,’ Micky said. Which was funny as there weren’t any shadows today cause of the rain.

‘Just a mate,’ I said.

‘The name …’

I got a bit desperate and grabbed at a name.

‘Davo,’ I blurted, then cursed softly as I’d fucked up.

‘Davo?’ Micky said. ‘Hear that, Davo.’

Micky didn’t look at Davo but the grin on his mug was for him.

‘Billy’s been visiting his mate, Davo,’ Micky said. ‘And Billy, where does this Davo live?’

‘That way.’ I pointed vaguely in the direction of the houses down the street. Then I had an inspiration. ‘A couple of streets over.’

‘And the address?’ asked Micky.

‘Dunno.’ What could I say? ‘I just walks …’

‘How about we drive you there, get you out of the rain. Then this Davo mate of yours can confirm your alibi.’

‘Alibi?’ I said.

I knew where this was going. I’d done this particular walk before. Alice wouldn’t be too pleased to have cops stomping through her establishment, especially if she had a client. She was popular. And if the cops were looking for a mug to fit up over the robbery…

‘And when your mate, Davo’s, done that, we’ll drive you home.’

Liz, Dr Elisabeth Marsden, might be a bit ‘perturbed’, that’s a Liz word, at that. She, well, keep this to yourselves, Liz had some stuff at her place she shouldn’t have and wouldn’t want the cops to see. If I walked in with Micky and Dave in tow, that’d be the end. I’ve slept rough before and it wasn’t no joke, especially in winter.

‘How’s that sound?’ Micky asked. He had this big grin all over his face. ‘I’ll tell you what, first off, why don’t you show us what’s in your backpack, mate?’

Fuck me dead!

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No Longer Human, Jacob Morris

Kaitlyn Lynch could never quite work out what the deal was with men and their t-shirt wearing display of macho bravado during the coldest days. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to grab a jacket?’ she asked her fiancé as he emerged out of the front door.

‘Nah, I’ll be alright,’ said James Steele with confidence. ‘It’s not like we’re in England or anything. They say an Australian winter is like a British summer, you know.’

‘Oh, how about England for the honeymoon?’ she asked. ‘It’ll be spring there and we could stay in Brighton by the seaside.’ She was starting to feel a rush of excitement. This often happened when she thought about her future with James.

‘I wonder what the UK’s craft beers are like,’ he said.

As they headed towards her car, their neighbour walked past without so much as glancing up.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen that girl once without a phone in her hand,’ said James. ‘What’s her name again?’

‘Come on, really? She’s been living here a month now,’ Kaitlyn chuckled. ‘It’s Jessica, she’s trying to become an Instagram influencer.’

‘How does she even see where she’s walking? More eyes would do her wonders,’ James said.

They were headed to the cinema to catch the latest scary flick. Horror wasn’t James’ genre of choice by any stretch of the imagination, but Kaitlyn never complained about always going to different pubs and breweries so that he could try the newest craft beers. She only drank on occasion, but she was happy enough to accompany him knowing how much he enjoyed it.

‘So, guess what new beer the Harbour Bar brought out?’ James said as he climbed into the passenger seat. ‘An apple crumble dessert sour ale.’

‘Sounds wild,’ Kaitlyn said. ‘You want to go try it after the movie?’

‘You’re the best,’ said James with a grin that would give the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland a run for its money.

Kaitlyn awoke the next morning to find she was in bed alone. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and stood to her feet. She headed towards the kitchen and found James sitting by the table with his back towards her. His head was curled into his arms. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘James, what’s wrong?’

‘I don’t know,’ said James in a trembling voice. ‘I woke up like this.’ He turned around to face Kaitlyn and nothing could have prepared her for what she saw.

Kaitlyn collapsed onto the lounge. She’d been to the hospital with James more times in the last week than ever in her whole life. She wanted to scream in frustration. Why? Why him? Tears were streaming down her face. It wasn’t fair. She couldn’t stand to see him so destroyed, and wished she could take some of his pain. The worst part was nobody had any concrete answers. The first doctor who inspected James tried to give them a standard doctor spiel about ‘an unidentified disfiguring virus’, but anyone could have seen he was just as confused as they were. It was James who ended up consoling Kaitlyn in that emergency room as she broke down in desperation. She’d asked the doctor when he’d be cured, but his usage of the word ‘if’ instead of ‘when’ in his response had been the last straw. ‘No, no,’ she had sobbed in despair. ‘We’re getting married in Autumn.’ Suddenly, another fear hit her harder than any of those preceding it. ‘Will our children look like this?’ Kaitlyn didn’t have any sort of degree in medicine, but she understood his response. The fancy medical terminology he hid behind basically meant he didn’t know. They were stuck in limbo.

The next morning Kaitlyn woke up to a strange sensation. As her eyes opened, she was staring at the ceiling but also saw darkness. She was laying on her back, but it felt like one of her eyes was against her pillow. Kaitlyn walked into the bathroom and the mirror revealed what she had become. Like him. There were numerous large eyes dotting her head. She counted ten. Her mouth had switched places with her nose, as if her face had been rearranged upside down. Her head was oval shaped, and her ears were no longer parallel. She approached James and when he saw her, he began to weep.

‘Oh god…oh no…I’m so…so sorry, Katie,’ he managed to say in between sobs.

‘I-It’s not your fault. I should have been more careful,’ Kaitlyn said. She tried to put on a brave face, but facial expressions were worthless now.

For the first month, she locked herself inside the house with James. Her mother dropped off essential groceries at their front door and they only spoke on the phone. Each time Kaitlyn was expecting a drop off, she double checked the door was locked and secured so that her mother couldn’t enter. Just because her world had been turned upside down didn’t mean she would allow anyone else to catch this…this…whatever this was.

In the months that followed, most of the world’s leaders acknowledged an emergency pandemic was upon them. They were calling it Severe Acute Appearance Disorder, or SAAD. Kaitlyn and James left the house on occasion for essentials, though each time the glares they received implied they were committing a crime against humanity. The initial horrified reactions had developed into a fearful recognition that usually involved the onlooker taking multiple steps backwards.

As Kaitlyn was walking home from the supermarket one afternoon, she thought of her future. They had decided to indefinitely postpone the wedding since medical specialists around the world were trying to develop a cure. It was a glimmer of hope. Something to hold onto that stopped her from falling into utter despair. The chance of a mundane life seemed so far fetched now. I’ll never get used to this, she thought, as she stared at the empty city street ahead. She walked past the multi-story Myer store. It was eerily quiet for a sunny afternoon in the city. A sight of bustling crowds within was a distant memory. The Silent Spring. She thought it could have been the title of one of those Lemony Snicket books she’d read growing up. Would she ever have children to read those to?

As Kaitlyn approached her front door, she noticed their neighbour, Jessica, taking the rubbish out. When they exchanged glances Kaitlyn smiled, forgetting this would portray a frown. The glare of disgust she received in return brought tears to her eyes.

Entering the house, she began wiping all of her eyes. She didn’t want James to revert back to feeling as guilty as he had before. She found him in the living room.

‘You can’t go outside alone anymore,’ James said, as sweat dripped down his forehead. He passed his phone to Kaitlyn.

As she focused ten eyes on the open article, she was mortified. The headline stated: ‘Fourteenth SAAD-positive victim killed by gunshot wounds in Sydney streets. Murderer/s still at large.’

Fuck, there goes another thousand. Jessica Crawford was glaring at her phone in frustration. There were only so many posts she could upload of herself barricaded in her house and the lack of originality was causing her followers to drop like flies. It wasn’t her fault this inconvenient virus had emerged out of nowhere to interfere with her career. It was a precarious time for Instagram influencers and her ungrateful followers should have taken this into account. Jessica first heard of a Severe Acute Appearance Disorder virus on the internet three months ago. Doctors claimed that contagion periods lasted two weeks, but even when a person wasn’t contagious anymore, their physical deformity was so far irreversible.

Legitimacy of the virus was revealed to her two months ago when she had witnessed her neighbours…no, what used to be her neighbours, leaving the house. Jessica was disgusted to find their faces no longer human. If she were to catch this virus then she could kiss her chances of becoming a successful influencer goodbye and she’d sooner die.

She was about to enter the supermarket one afternoon when she recognised a woman in front of her. She quickly lowered her head. In the rare occasions she left home, Jessica tried to avoid unnecessary contact with people to decrease her chances of catching the virus. Avoiding people and not checking her phone were the two rules she’d set for herself while shopping.

‘Hi, Jessica,’ the woman called out. ‘How are you?’

‘Not bad, I better get going though, I need…’

‘Oh! I was on the phone to your mum the other day,’ the woman said. ‘We had a FaceTime catch up. She’s still as stunning as ever. I bet she can’t wait for you to become a successful model too.’

‘You’d think so,’ Jessica said while sidestepping around. ‘I have to hurry along but it was good seeing you.’

After she left the supermarket, Jessica couldn’t rid her mind of the encounter. Thinking about her patronising mother made her blood boil. You just don’t have the look. Not everyone can, it’s a natural gift. That condescending tone was implanted into her memory. Sure, she apparently didn’t have the natural look, but an influencer could easily edit photos to cover for that. Once she gained a monumental number of followers, her mother would be forced to acknowledge her success. For that to happen, she couldn’t continue to lose followers. With that in mind she pulled out her phone and refreshed Instagram, too agitated to realise what she had just done.

Jessica was a five-minute walk away from her house when she heard a groan. She turned to find someone laying on the side of the road.

‘H-help me,’ the man croaked.

As she approached him, she suddenly jumped back at the sight of his grotesque face.

‘Car p-pulled up. They shot me twice. P-please,’ he begged.

‘Stay away,’ Jessica said, moving further back. The man was losing a lot of blood, but she was sure as shit not going to risk exposing herself.

‘P-please.’

She ran home.

The following day she noticed an article online that reported news of the victim she’d encountered. He’d died from his wounds, leaving behind a wife and children. The article also stated he had picked up the virus two months ago and was well beyond being contagious anymore. It wasn’t her fault he had decided to go outside alone when a group of murderers were out there, slaughtering people who had contracted SAAD. She also would’ve had to touch her phone to call an ambulance. She hadn’t been home to wash her hands yet, there was nothing she could have done.

A week later, Jessica woke up to a strange sensation.

For the first Summer since she could remember, Kaitlyn Lynch’s skin tone remained the same shade. The streets only accommodated those fortunate enough to have escaped the wrath of SAAD. Arrests were taking place by the day but the vicious cult of SAAD targeting murderers seemed to gain followers faster than they were apprehended. Police had their hands full with regular criminals and an emergence of underground organisations that were illegally manufacturing and distributing guns. Due to this, Kaitlyn and James were among the many who never left their homes. One afternoon as they were sitting in their living room, James noticed a person standing by the road.

‘Katie, look. It’s our neighbour,’ said James, peering out the window. ‘Oh damn, she’s caught it too.’

Kaitlyn jumped up in alarm. ‘She can’t be out there. What about the drive-bys?’

James shrugged. ‘Don’t know what the hell she’s thinking.’

Kaitlyn’s mind was racing in a panic. She’s been nothing but horrible to me. The look of contempt she gives me whenever she sees me…she’s still a human though. ‘I have to do something,’ Kaitlyn said, determined. ‘I’m going to go grab her and bring her inside.’

If she were going to do this, James couldn’t let her go alone. ‘Alright, let’s move quick,’ he said.

James took the lead with Kaitlyn crouched behind him. ‘You see anything suspicious?’ he asked. He was sure if they were quick, their chances of grabbing the girl and getting back without being seen were hugely in their favour. A detective would later inform him about the cult member who’d been regularly patrolling their street once word of a SAAD-positive Instagram influencer had surfaced.

‘I think we’re good,’ said Kaitlyn. ‘I can’t see past the bend though.’

‘It’s now or never. Stay behind me,’ James said. They ran towards Jessica, half crouched with their heads forward like ninjas. James grabbed Jessica’s arm. ‘What the hell are you doing? Come on, get inside.’

Jessica looked at him, her multiple eyes weary. ‘What’s the point?’ she asked. ‘Just let them come.’

James pulled her back towards the front door. She didn’t fight his grip nor stand her ground. She was a mindless vessel existing in spacetime, allowing the laws of motion and gravity to guide her movement. Kaitlyn opened the front door as James pulled Jessica towards it. Almost there.

There was a loud screech of tires. ‘There’s the fucking bitch!’ a voice bellowed.

They were a second away from the entrance, a force slammed into James as he tumbled inside the house with Jessica while the sound of gunfire echoed throughout the street.

There was blood on his shirt. He couldn’t feel pain. Not mine? He realised Kaitlyn had tackled them inside the door. ‘Katie!’ She was hit.

A marriage celebrant stood in James and Kaitlyn’s living room. His mask was wrapped tight around his face, but his words of unification were clear and powerful. Kaitlyn stood by James, leaning on him as he helped her stand. James held her left arm while her right forearm was aided by a crutch. Her leg cast displayed ‘James & Kaitlyn Steele 28.04.2021’ in permanent marker. Jessica stood behind as the only guest. Isolation rules were still in place, but the special occasion deserved this miniscule violation. Along with the trees of Autumn, Kaitlyn had let go. There was still no cure, but life was too short to let that control her. She locked eyes with James, and all of the facial disfiguration in the world couldn’t have concealed their happiness.

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Lost Things, Izabel Smythe

Photo by Cosmic Timetraveler on *Unsplash*

Kathy heard Ted’s voice on the loud speaker as he drove past their front yard. He sounded proud to be a crier, reminding the residents of Asquith to switch on the TV at 11 o’clock for the yearly announcement of the winners under the Resettlement Scheme by the Interim Prime Minister.

Kathy sunk into the bathtub of milky water to muffle the sound of Ted’s grating voice. She had met Ted once, a year ago, in front of Woolies, after buying a can of Spam as he handed out voting pamphlets. “Vote for Ted, to stop the spread”, not that anyone was interested in what he was preaching. But now here he was, having won the contract for the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai community as the Town Crier. She wondered whether he had any competitors, now that Bridgette was gone. This wasn’t a 9 to 5 job just for anybody.

Bridgette, his predecessor, held that position for five years, before passing away. It was Ted who found Bridgette, soaking in the bathtub covered in blood, supposedly from a tremendous amount of coughing after being infected with the Virus. Kathy couldn’t believe Bridgette would have been that careless. If anyone was expected to survive this pandemic, it was Bridgette. She always greeted people by gesturing with her hands, chanting “Clean clean clean. Wash, wash wash”. She sent out compulsory monthly Zoom meetings to practise good hygiene, as mandated by the new law. The last physical meeting Bridgette organised was at Ted’s house, where she instructed on the etiquette and hygiene of purchasing fruits and vegetables from local home growers. Ted lived in Hornsby, the neighbouring town, which allowed her to introduce the intricacies of logistics.

Kathy held her breath under the water as Ted’s voice became distant. She lethargically came up for air as she slowly brushed away the Dettol water from her face, squeezing out the excess from her hair. Everything felt pointless, but she had to carry on. It was Bridgette who kept the town spirit going during the outbreak, who blissfully celebrated and engaged the community through emails, phone calls and chats. This would be the first year without Bridgette.

Kathy could hear Daniel stirring in bed next door. She quickly got up, covering her thin frame in a kimono wrap.

‘Daniel, you better hurry. The water is still warm.’

She opened the cupboard to put away the Dettol bottle that had been sitting open. Only a few drops were left, but they had to last several days. With quivering hands, she decided to angle the bottle, just a little, spilling a couple of drops into the bathtub. It would be a homage to Bridgette’s “Clean, clean, clean”, to make up for the recycled water Daniel would be stewing in.

‘Is it clean? No petals or eucalyptus leaves nonsense?’ he called out.

‘Only my period broth to rejuvenate the skin.’ She smirked, bending over to dry her hair with a towel. ‘Kidding okay, don’t waste it. Get in. I’ll make our breakfast soon.’

Daniel walked in shivering and naked, moving towards the bath.

‘What’s for breakfast this time?’ he asked as he slid into the tub. ‘It’s cold.’

‘It’ll be a surprise.’ She kissed Daniel on his wet forehead before walking away. ‘And clean up after you finish please.’

‘Here you go. The morning special. Baked beans with caramelised bananas.’

‘Fancy,’ Daniel said, sitting up straight on the sofa to take his plate. Kathy walked back into the kitchen to get water to share. She crumbled a couple of mints into a large glass, topping it with water from the urn.

She remembered someone once telling her that mint would become a weed, unless contained. Thankfully Kathy hadn’t listened, because it was now a source of food. Mint had managed to survive the frost of winter and the dreaded summer heat, unlike their parsleys and leeks which relied on water. Water was now too scarce to waste on gardens. The water looked so silky. Kathy caressed the glass against her face, brushing it across her lips, tempted to steal a sip. She heard Daniel calling, almost losing her grasp.

‘No need to wait for me, put it on. Let’s see the show before the Interim Prime Minister gives his speech for the deserving hopefuls.’ Taking her plate and water, she walked briskly back into the lounge. She sat down on the carpet, her legs stretched out in front of the TV.

The show used thousands of remote controlled drones to project 3D visual effects. Sometimes the Government allowed a solo performer to fill in 60 minutes of air time, like now. A young singer was setting up to sit alone with her guitar. She began to play as a blue spotlight shone above her head. Kathy recognised it straight away. It was called Our Town and Iris DeMent’s lyrics suited the young singer’s voice. It was so haunting. Kathy felt her heart tighten and the hairs on her slim arms spike. She reached out for Daniel’s hands, only to find his knee. Kathy placed her hands over the knee, resting her head on them, just listening to the voice wash over her. She felt the nostalgia for simple things as the singer’s voice echoed.

The song was playing in the background the night Daniel had surprised her by slipping a daisy diamond ring onto her finger and proposing. Kathy hadn’t suspected a thing earlier that morning, when Daniel had telephoned her at work. He wanted to go out for drinks at the Glenmore Hotel, to celebrate his win. A case he tirelessly worked on, including weekends, on behalf of a migrant family whose application for Australian citizenship was rejected by the Department of Immigration. She couldn’t be more proud of him then or now. It was what was left of his savings that was keeping them afloat, allowing for rations at Woolies when it was essential to go outside.

She missed going out, seeing places and going to the galleries. She missed hearing the background buzz that accompanied the drinking culture at Australia Square. Particularly when unwinding from sitting behind a glowing screen, like she used to, clattering words across a page, as the dictation filled her ears.

The music ended and the blue light once crowning the singer shifted and began to follow the footsteps of a figure walking towards the microphone. The face of the Interim Prime Minister filled their TV screen as he began to speak. Kathy had recalled him being much younger. She could tell in his voice, and see in his eyes, the tiredness which weighed heavily on his face, making it sag with dense lines. How quickly he had aged! He had only been in this position for less than a year. He thanked the two models who pushed the Lottery Machine onto the stage beside him. The machine started rolling, the envelopes inside ruffling theatrically like clothes in a washing machine. Kathy heard the names being announced one by one.

‘Daniel, you know, before, when the Resettlement Scheme began, you helped people with their application forms, to be in the draw to win the vaccine lottery. Were those cases difficult?’

‘Shhh! Shhh! I’m trying to listen.’ Daniel said as he tried to ignore her.

‘But I want to know. How is it decided? Who and when? I wonder what our chances are?’ she asked him inquisitively.

Daniel glanced at her impatiently, but said nothing and turned back to watch the lottery draw. Kathy stared at him angrily for a minute before erupting.

‘You never share anything with me. We never talk anymore.’

Daniel continued to sit silently as a smile crept across his face.

‘Didn’t you hear? We won baby! He picked our envelope, the Johnsons in Asquith from New South Wales. Did you not hear what he said?’

‘It’s been too long, I have forgotten what our surname sounds like,’ she replied as she stood up and headed towards the kitchen with their empty plates. Daniel followed her, standing by the kitchen bench with his arms folded, watching her irritably.

‘What’s wrong now?’

‘Nothing. I was merely curious. Aren’t you? Regardless of how many deaths, there are still millions of Australians. Where will we live? It’s been six or eight years now, and not a word from any of our friends or neighbours who have made it. Remember the Watsons next door?’

Kathy had wondered what happened to the Watson family after they were relocated across the border. She had asked them to check in via Zoom once settled into their place, to let her know everything was fine. Bridgette had texted her a month later about the Watsons because she hadn’t heard from them either. Soon afterwards, Bridgette set up a Zoom call with members of the community forum, to figure out why there was radio silence from all our relocated friends.

Bridgette had a nickname for the lottery after the second year, she called it “Border Feud”. It became a popular game played on Zoom, state against state, instead of footy. That was until The Project brought up the problematic Resettlement Scheme and the ongoing mockery. Both were seen as insults to Australia Day, scarring not only the Indigenous community but excluded families due to their refugee status.

Houses were graffitied with “L” when people were identified as winners. Then someone had the idea to call it “Will you accept this envelope?”, to reflect the ignorance of the Government in its failure to recognise the diversity of multiculturalism in Australia. If you don’t look white, you don’t qualify to win a vaccine.

A few years later, someone leaked live footage of elderly citizens being pushed and shoved into metal cages by military officials, because the nurses weren’t able to tick all the boxes to present the elderly with a vaccine.

As a distraction, Bridgette had set up a closed Zoom chat for the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai community, playing Dingo got my Vaccine. Kathy threw her name into the pool and Bridgette would call out player names randomly, until someone shouted “Dingo got my vaccine.”

Kathy remembered that it was around this time that the Prime Minister restructured the Government and altered some of the policies. Everything was to be locally owned and produced to support local communities and industries for economical regrowth.

The Police’s role also changed. They now worked at checkouts in stores, because not only was the Virus killing people at a faster rate, it was also contributing to people committing crimes.

The Prime Minister then remodelled the system, introducing heavy fines and strict curfews, but was swiftly voted out of parliament. People rallied for a system that would let them be free, allowing them to go back to jobs, holidays and the movies. They wanted a people’s Prime Minister.

That same year, Bridgette was appointed as the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai Town Crier. Kathy had then asked Bridgette what does this mean? Would she be allowed to finally catch a bus to a beach, to press her toes in the sand?

Bridgette could never keep a straight face, it wasn’t in her nature.

‘Oh you crack me up sometimes Kathy,’ Bridgette answered. One could only imagine that Bridgette’s house shook as she laughed at these types of questions. ‘Essentials only! Like shopping for food or medical needs.’ She reminded everyone.

Kathy felt that Bridgette’s laughter was more contagious than the Virus. Watching her laugh on screen was enough to make anyone laugh with hysteria. And she gives the best virtual hugs that smelt like hot chocolate dripped in churros. Kathy would kill for a hug or some churros right now.

Daniel’s stern voice rang in her ears.

‘We won’t be able to survive here Kathy. It’s not going to be enough. Give or take a couple of years, the Hornsby Ku-ring-gai community will become a cemetery. We have to keep moving forward. This is our last chance to live. A couple more hurdles, then we can truly start living again, like the old days.’

‘Maybe I want something different.’

‘I did it for us. A few years back before I lost the job. I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought you would be happy.’

‘I…I am. I’m grateful. It’s just people on Zoom have heard rumours about the other side. Bridgette didn’t believe that the Government is doing what they claim to – protecting people of Australia. She believed it to be a hoax. A ruse to lock us up in a facility, conduct a test and to study us like guinea pigs.’

‘Ridiculous! Stop misinterpreting things. This is not like any other virus scientists have previously encountered. There is no one vaccine for everyone. Remember Patient 1 in the UK who had an adverse reaction? This is the only solution the scientists have arrived at. Tailor a vaccine for each individual biochemistry. I don’t think that either of us would be of value if we developed Guillain-Barre Syndrome.’

‘So, what’s next for us then?’ she asked, worryingly looking up at him.

‘We wait for the knock on our door,’ he replied, stepping closer, gently placing a kiss on her head.

‘When will that be?’

‘Could be today, tomorrow, weeks, months. I really don’t know. We have to be ready, read books, do some practise questions from previous years and start building strength. They may show up anytime.’

She pushed away from him, picking up the notepad and pen from the kitchen bench.

‘I need to do our inventory,’ said Kathy as she opened the pantry.

Daniel strode back into the living room, leaving her alone in the kitchen.

She stood contemplating, staring blankly at the empty shelf. A few cans of baked beans, Spam and jelly mixes. What could she possibly make with that? Every morning, that jelly screamed at her. But it was just another non-essential item in her cupboard. The fridge had been turned off like their other electrical appliances, except for the TV and their laptop. These were occasionally turned on for essential updates and Zoom. Daniel was right. They couldn’t possibly continue living off herbs, bananas, mulberries and sour figs. They had used up almost all of their water supply in the tank, and with the start of summer, it would only become scarcer.

Her skin suddenly felt moist as tears rolled down her cheeks. She felt herself crumbling. Yes, Daniel was right. Being this close to hope was only playing on her fears. Kathy was frightened, uncertain about what their lottery win meant. They weren’t fit enough to pass any physical examination. Their bones were too weak and fragile. Being indoors also probably stunted their brains from lack of stimulation. They wouldn’t be able to comprehend any of the general questions in the quiz. How could they contribute to New Australis? What could she, a simple clerk, possibly give back to society in this new place? Daniel would be fine. He was a lawyer, then a resettlement adviser, and he could easily reinvent himself across the border, perhaps as a teacher. That’s an essential worker. But she, she knew, would become another one of those lost things. A part of the old world that doesn’t exist anymore. Unable to recognise who she once was.

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